Imperial, but let the word get out that you’re there. In case, for example, Commodore Ford just happened to be in the neighborhood.”
Commodore Hiram Ford was chairman of the board of Trans-Pacific Shipping.
And that sonofabitch is entirely capable of showing up there and trying to take over the conference.
“This your idea or Charley’s?”
“Mine, Pop,” Pick said. “Come on! What the hell! You could see the Killer and Ernie. And I’ll have you back by next Thursday.”
“If you and Charley agree that I should.”
“We do,” Pick said, firmly.
What the hell. The alternative is watching the waves go up and down in San Francisco Bay until Patti gets home. And it’ll do her good to have to wait for me for once.
“I’m with the State Department, myself,” the asshole in the window seat announced.
Why doesn’t that surprise me?
“Are you really?”
“I’ve just been assigned to General MacArthur’s staff.”
“That should be an interesting assignment,” Pickering said, politely.
“I’m to be his advisor on psychological warfare.”
“Really?”
“I’m looking forward to working with him,” the asshole said. “From what I understand, he’s an incredible man.”
“Yes, I would say he is,” Pickering agreed.
And the first thing you’re going to have to learn, you simpleton, is that no one works with El Supremo, they work for him.
And the second is that the only advice Douglas MacArthur listens to is that advice that completely agrees with his positions in every minute detail.
[TWO]
HANEDA AIRFIELD TOKYO, JAPAN 1155 1 JUNE 1950
Fleming Pickering politely shook the hand of the State Department asshole in the window seat—who actually thought Douglas MacArthur would be grateful for his advice—and wished him good luck in his new assignment.
Then he walked forward to the cockpit and stood and waited while Pick went through the paperwork associated with the end of a Trans-Global flight. Then he followed Pick and the rest of the crew down the ladder pushed up to the cockpit door.
Pick waited for him at the bottom of the ladder, touched his arm, and nodded across the tarmac toward two nattily dressed military policemen who stood guard over a well-polished Douglas C-54 that bore the bar-and-star insignia of an American military aircraft, and had “Bataan” lettered on either side of its nose.
“That’s MacArthur’s, right?” Pick asked.
“It says ‘Bataan’ on the nose,” Pickering replied, gently sarcastic. “I think that’s a fair assumption.”
“Doesn’t look like there’s much wrong with it, does there?” Pick asked.
“I think that’s probably the best-maintained airplane in the Orient,” Pickering said. “What are you driving at?”
“Just before we came over here,” Pick said, “I had a call from Lockheed. The military laid a priority on them for a new 1049, to replace the war-weary C-54 of your pal MacArthur. So Lockheed’s going to give him the next one off the line, which was supposed to be mine, and which I need.”
“He is the Supreme Commander, Allied Powers,” Pickering said. “And you’re just a lousy civilian.”
“Spoken like a true general,” Pick said, with a smile.
“Yes, indeed, and why aren’t you standing at attention in my presence?”
Pick laughed and waved his father ahead of him toward the door in the terminal marked CUSTOMS AIR CREWS ONLY.
Trans-Global’s Tokyo station chief was waiting for them outside customs. Pickering didn’t know him, but the man obviously knew who he was.
I suppose, as MacArthur is El Supremo of Japan, I am El Supremo of Pacific & Far East. But what does this guy think I’m going to do to him? Eat him alive?
“I’m Fleming Pickering,” he said, offering his hand with a smile.
“Yes, sir, I know. Welcome to Tokyo. How was your flight, sir?”
“Very nice,” Pickering said. “Did you get the word about how little time it took us?”
“Yes, sir,” the man said. “And we should have official confirmation within the hour.” He turned to Pick. “Congratulations, Captain.”
“Let’s hold off on that until we get confirmation,” Pick said. “But thanks anyway.”
“Captain, Mr. Ansley asks that you come to base operations. Apparently, there’s some paperwork connected with certification. . . .”
“I figured there would be,” Pick said. “Dad, there’s no reason why you have to wait around here for God knows how long.” He turned to the station chief. “We have wheels to take my father to the hotel, right?”
“Right outside,” the station chief confirmed.
“I’ll see you at the hotel,” Pick said.
The wheels turned out to be a 1941 Cadillac limousine. Pickering wasn’t pleased with that, but realized that saying anything to the station chief would make him sound ungrateful.
“Charley Ansley’s told me what a fine job you’ve been doing here,” Pickering said,